Can't Fail
by homeforthelost
Summary: Pre-series Stanford days. Sam is struggling with a class for the first time in college. He starts to unravel at the seams. Dean will make an appearance. Warnings for language and darkish theme
1. Chapter 1

A/N Just a quick piece I whipped out, I apologize for any mistakes. Let me know what you think! If you spot any mistakes let me know and I will fix them, they drive me nuts when I see them in other people's writing. I'm sorry for the long wait! I am going to try to update more regularly now that I am not in classes.

Almost Done

It's ok. Sam can't feel his hands. Or his face. But that's ok. Because he got an 89.5 on his last English test. He hasn't been able to feel anything for the past two days. But as soon as the next two weeks are over, everything will go back to normal. So for now, the fact that his skin feels like its crawling doesn't matter. Because he needs to end the semester strong. Not getting good grades is not going to happen. It would be unacceptable. Sam can't afford for that to happen. This has been a bad semester.

All capital letters. A BAD semester. This is his second year here, he can't afford to fall apart now like some newbie. There's only two weeks left. That's 10 school days left. Sam rubs his arms, trying to get rid of the static-y feeling that the strong concoction of sleep deprivation and extreme amounts of caffeine have left him. The feeling doesn't leave. Even as he realizes that he is leaving red marks on his arms and face from scratching. But that's ok. Because he did well on two out of the last three tests he took. Sam puts his hands in his hoodie's pockets. His face is tingly now. But that's ok. He will drink some more coffee soon. And Redbull. Oh thank God or any other entity out there for Redbull and coffee. Sam starts as he realizes he is literally wringing his hands as he stares at the computer screen. The current demon is Business Calculus. Why a lawyer needs Business Calculus is well beyond him. What use could he possibly have for it. Seriously, what is he going to ever need Business Calculus for? He is going to be a lawyer, not a Business major. Sam heaves a sigh in frustration. Which somehow turns into a yawn... which turns into a yawn...His eyes don't want to open again and the tingling is slowly disappearing...SLAM! Sam jumps into consciousness like a reluctant 6th grader to the dreaded speech. Curse words he had learned long ago on hunts fell unbidden from his lips as the homework assignment stares him down. There is only 3 hours left before the assignment closes. Sam scoots his rickety chair forward. It squeaks in protest and Sam winces, glancing over to Brady, his jock of a roommate, trying to make sure he didn't wake up. Brady stirs, but stays asleep after shifting to face the other direction. Sam sighs. His hands scrub his face. The exhaustion feels like its weighting his eyelids down. He can HEAR them clink together. A hysterical giggle escapes him at the sound. Blink. Blink. He can't help smiling, even as he rubs his hands together again to try to rid them of the pins-and-needles feeling that refuses to leave. Sam remembers being young and watching Tom and Jerry with Dean in run-down motels and laughing at the way Tom or some other character would act when they were tired. Using toothpicks to hold their bloodshot eyelids open. But now, some wonders how well that would work. If the toothpicks weren't in the kitchen, halfway across the small apartment, Sam would be sorely tempted to try it. Sam picks up his pencil and squints his tired, scratchy eyes at the question on display and then back to his notebook and the textbook spread haphazardly across his foldable desk. Almost done with this semester. He can't focus, he is so tired. But he is almost done with this math assignment. He is almost failing. He has a 72% in this class. Sam hasn't had a C since Home Ec in Freshman year of high school. Sam drops his pencil in favor of scrubbing his face again. Clink. Clink. He can't help but smirk as he hears the effort involved in just blinking and not staying asleep forever. His arms are still crawling and a furtive glance at his watch tells him its only 1:57. He will be in this class in 5 hours. A glance back at the dull laptop screen shows that he has one problem left. Sam starts to rewrite the problem on his notebook, only to realize that he had already written this problem...Except the numbers are backwards. A careful rereading of the problem tells him yes, he wrote that wrong and that would most likely be why the problem was marked wrong. He can't help but jump when he tastes iron in his mouth. Shit. What the hell. His knuckles are to his mouth. And evidently bleeding. Again. To stay awake, he had applied a little distraction method. Caffeine isn't always enough to keep him awake, it makes him jittery. So to combat that, he had taken to lightly biting his knuckles. He grimaced down at his knuckles, little indents leaking red stared back at him accusingly. Look how useless you are. You aren't good at anything. Not school, look at that class! You're going to fail it! Then you'll lose your full ride. And then! Hah! Then you'll be paying for college all on your own won't you. Sammy the little fuck up. Oh and what will daddy dearest and dear big brother think of that then. Look at that Dean, can't even learn a simple mathematical concept. Sam dug his finger nails into his other hand until he felt liquid well up. Just great. Now he has two bleeding hands and no doubt eyes to rival a raccoons. Sam grit his teeth. He won't fail this class. Sam swigs the last of his coffee, relishing the bitter taste even as he grimaces at the acidic taste it leaves. He digs in the small pocket of his backpack with new fervor until he finds what he is looking for. He won't fail. He will not be the fuck up. Swiping his hair back, Sam sets the red ink pen on the table beside his homework. He won't fail. It will be ok. One problem left and then he can sleep. He forces all his focus onto the problem, looking at the previous one and rearranging the equation until it looks compatible. Sam writes the math down on the index, they don't allow calculators in this class. He double checks his work. Triple checks it to be sure when he finds he wrote the numbers in the wrong order, shaking his head at his stupidity. With trembling hands fueled by caffeine and hope, he types in the answer he got and hovers his finger over the enter button. With eyes closed, he pressed the button, steeling himself for the alert that says its wrong. Eyes now open, he checks it, it's right. A half hysterical laugh flies out before he can suppress it. Finally, he can sleep until tomorrow. Closing the laptop, he doesn't even bother to take off shoes before he flops onto the bed across from Brady's. It'll be ok. He's almost done.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I got another chapter! Sorry it took me so long, real life has been screwing me up. But a chapter! It's 1 AM here and I've been up since 5, I looked it over for any errors so hopefully I got them all. This story is actually based off of one of my semesters, the sleep deprivation symptoms were like this for me and I did get sick. Not a fun experience, especially feeling the pressure from my engineer relatives… But enough about me.

I discovered line breaks guys!

Anyways though…Let me know what you guys think of the story.

Chapter 2: Can't Breath

The blare of what feels like sirens inside his head jerks Sam awake, it takes a few seconds for his brain to realize two things: the sound isn't from inside his head, and he can't breathe. The alarm's sharp, rapid beeping creates a symphony of fog and pain in his head. Sam swears as he fumbles blindly, knocking stuff off of the nightstand between the two beds. With a final thud, his hand not only knocks off the cheap, one-bulb lamp, but shuts up the infernal beeping. Sam sniffs loudly in annoyance, but a failure to draw in a breath through his nose makes him release a frustrated groan and another string of curses. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up quickly, remembering one of Newton's laws, "An object in motion tends to stay in motion". The saying, Sam had found throughout the many years of research done late at night and early school mornings, had seemed well-founded. It was much easier to stay up late at night than to get up in the morning.

Sam grabs blindly for a random shirt out of the cheap plastic laundry basket he keeps his clothes in at his feet. Blindly as in literally, the world went black when he first stood up. He fumbled with what should have been a shirt, and brought the shirt to his nose to smell it. Sam doesn't remember the last time he showered let alone washed his meager amount of clothes. His brow furrowed in thought and mild horror, his hands stopping in contemplation of the last time he showered. He didn't feel like it had been more than two days tops… His hair was greasy and his skin felt the same and kind of itchy.

But a glance at the clock now lying sideways wedged between the nightstand and the wall through slowly returning fuzzy vision tells him it's too late to worry about that now. Sam shrugs tiredly and with what should have been a huff but came out as more of a sound than any actual release of air. He looked at the shirt, a quick smile flitted across his face as he realized it indeed was a shirt, before he tried to sniff the shirt, tried being the key word, but again, he failed to actually breathe let alone smell anything.

He grimaced a little and made a mental note not to sit too close to anyone before whipping his own off and tugging the new one on like an uncoordinated five year old. He stumbled into the corner of the bed and pinged off of it like a pingball towards the desk. A sharp pain radiates from his hip in protest even as he is yanking his charging cord out of his laptop and slinging his tore up backpack onto his back.

He snagged a thermos off the counter by his lanyard with his apartment key and school ID and filled it with coffee in the kitchen. Keys. Check. Coffee. Check. Food…..a quick glance around the small excuse for a kitchen revealed a single bagel left in the bag. He precariously balanced his laptop and thermos on his knee, with one hand to hold it steady and quickly snatched the bagel out of the bag and shoved it in his mouth so he could open the door.

It shuts with a satisfying thud even as his vision blurs and fuzzes blue and green. Sam fumbled with the deadbolt, trying to insert the key. When his vision clears, he realized the key was upside down. A self-depreciative snort makes it out between the bagel and his mouth as his head thumps the door in embarrassment. Door locked, bagel almost devoured, Sam's shaky hand fumbled with the lock on his bike. It was a code lock which turned out to be a God send. He had originally got it because it was harder to pick then a typical lock and key, but seriously appreciated it after he lost his apartment key for a week last semester.

Sam spun the combination on the lock tethering his back to the bike rack with relative ease despite one hand shoveling the last of the bagel into his mouth. Same combo as the Impala's lock box. 1187. It was the first thing that came to mind when he had been trying to think of a code. To use his apartment address would be too obvious. Sam sped cautiously down the road, even though he was in California in a pretty well-to-do area, bikes on the road weren't always given the right away as they should be. His side and ankle twinged in memory of THAT incident. Thank God or whatever deity out there that Dean and Dad weren't on his cell as his Emergency Contact. He shuddered at the thought of how _that_ incident would have gone over.

Last of the bagel now eaten, he slid his lanyard in his gym shorts pocket and slung his leg over to ride the bike. His mind more predisposed with what class he was going to today than actually paying attention to his surroundings. The memory of the Calc homework the night before flits briefly through his mind, along with a weight that settles heavily on his shoulders and chest rather than flitting off.

He has Business Calculus today and Criminal Psychology.

Psychology gets out at 1, then he works at a local restaurant as a dishwasher until 7. Luckily, AP Psych in high school prepared him pretty well for the college class. He had a 97% overall in the class so he wasn't near so worried about it. But Business Calculus was kicking his ass. And so was the Intro to Law class. He had C's in both of them. Much to his horror. He can't afford to not get good grades on them. They will knock his GPA down. And his GPA _has_ to stay above a 3.5 to keep his full ride. He can barely afford the hours he has to work to feed himself and pay for health insurance.

Sam shuddered as a cool breeze cut through his shirt. Goosebumps surged along his exposed skin and he hunched his shoulders to help keep some of the heat and he sniffed loudly through his nose before giving up and breathing through his mouth. The light turned red, irritation flared through him as he slowed to a careful stop, clumsy despite his best attempts. He rubbed sweaty palms against his shorts as he waited for the light to turn green. Shaky hands that were numb again and now clammy returned to the handlebars. Sam closed his eyes for a second as he waited for the light to change. Almost done with this semester. Only had to go to these classes three more times. Almost done. Static sparks charge along his skin even as he pedals through the sprinkling rain to school.

The breeze on his face helped his awareness, as did the coffee slowly churning into his blood. Sam squinted against the fog that had settled as he nears the building with his first class. Dark shapes move in his peripheral vision making him jerk the wheel to avoid something on his left. He jerks to a stop, one foot ramming into the dirt and then stumbling to keep his balance as he is hit with a vicious bout of vertigo.

Sam turned to see whatever had swooped into his vision only to realize there was nothing there. Well nothing abnormal. Just some regular students on their way to classes. He tries to take another breath through his noise but only succeeds in making a tiny whistling noise. Sam takes one last glance around before taking a breath through his mouth and pushing off towards the campus 2 miles away. It doesn't matter he can't breathe or feel his hands or think straight and he can't breathe and his chest aches and his skin tingles, because he's almost done with this semester, nine days to go.


	3. Chapter 3: Sinking

A/N: I'm back guys! So…. The line break didn't transfer over in Chapter 2 like I thought it did. But I'll figure it out eventually.

In the meantime! An update! Let me know how you want Dean to be included. Such as Sam having to be hospitalized, Dean dropping in to covertly check and sees Sam a wreck, or someone finding Dean's info and calling him. Dean probably won't show up in the next chapter, but I practically guarantee he will be in the chapter after that. I don't know how well I can write their dialogue, it's not my best point.

Let me know in the comments!

SPN SPN SPN

Ah-chmnk! Sam stifled a sneeze, causing water from the sink to splash up as he dropped the cup in favor of raising his wrists to his face to contain the spray.

Sam sniffed a loud congested sound that only seemed to prove to Sam that breathing through his nose was a feat that was just not happening today. He flicked the suds off his hands and parted his lips to try to subtly breathe through his mouth.

Dean suddenly popped into his mind's eye as Sam reached, grimacing at the heat of the dirty water, for the coffee mug he had dropped. Dean had been the one to teach Sam to try to at least contain the sickness. Dean and the stupid, worn leather coat Dad had given him. Sam sniffed through his nose again, even as he absentmindedly scrubbed the inside of the mug out with the dishrag. Dean and his germphobia. Everyone thought Sam would be the one, of any Winchester, to be the germophobe, but no, that place was held by one protective older brother.

Linda, the supervisor for the night, reminded Sam of Dean. Gruff, blunt, a sense of humour, even if that sense of humour is cleaner than Dean's. But most of all, Linda is a germophobe and a motherhen.

Hence his trying to hide his sniffling. If Sam set off her mother hen alarms, Sam would be sent home early. He couldn't afford for that. Sam fumbled with a plate as he thought about the crumpled bills in his wallet. Maybe enough to by some Nyquil. A small bottle at least.

God he missed Dean.

For all the crap he gave him, Dean provided a lot of comfort and safety. A lot more than either one of them would either admit. Sam hadn't realized the extent of Dean's efforts until his second semester. Sam couldn't help but reminisce on how things would be different if Dean was here.

Dean would have caught on to Sam not feeling well before Sam himself had. Sam's focus, all though great for researching and for school, made him lose track of all but whatever object had become his study.

There was few things Sam was grateful for John teaching him, but his focus was one of the best things he had ever learned from him. Except for when Dean wasn't around to tell him when to stop.

To punch his arm and tease him about being a nerd who will never manage to get laid, but even while Dean razzed him, Dean would strategically leave food and coffee and blunt reminders that yes, he stinks. He stinks because he hasn't showered. Come on Sammy, not only a nerd, but a smelly one at that. Dean kept him in line. God what Sam would do for some of Dean's soup or Mac 'n' Cheese.

For that cool glass of water at midnight with some pills and VapoRub to put on his chest. When Sam had been little, Dean had applied it himself. There was a ritual to being sick. Dean took care of Sam, because Sam always got it the worst. Possibly something to do with late vaccinations as a child.

But whatever the case, even up into his teen years, Dean would make sure Sam had food he would eat, something to drink, pills at the proper times, and he would rub the VapoRub on his chest. It hadn't been until Sam started shooting up at 15 did he ask Dean to stop applying the VapoRub. It was a few years before that Sam realized Dean had his meds on an alarm to wake Dean up to get Sam to take some.

Ah-Chtthhhmnk! Sam stifled a sneeze again. It broke him out of his reverie, especially as a shiver wracked its way through his body. Sam knows he feels like shit, he probably looks it too. But he feels like he is sinking. He can't stop yet.

The weight of the eight tests left were pressing down on his chest. Even now. Eight tests. Four of them finals, the rest end-of-semester tests. Enough that maybe he can pull his grades to B's, solidify his A's. Sam's brow furrowed as he considered the upcoming tests. Two were tomorrow, Intro to Law and his English class. He was pretty sure he had the English in the bag, but his Intro to Law not so much.

Sam swiped a bead of sweat of his forehead with the back of his wrist and checked his watch. It was a cheap, generic watch that could have been bought anywhere. But it got the job done.

Even if Brady had a fancy Rolex, it was ok. Because Sam made it here on his own. And by God, he is going to make it or die trying. Brady's parent paid for Brady's tuition so long as he had a good GPA. Something he was in danger of losing.

Brady wasn't a slacker, he studied hard and got good grades. But he didn't have to work through school like Sam did. He didn't pinch pennies like Sam did. Except after his girlfriend broke up with him, Brady had been struggling. He had been drinking a lot and getting into a lot of trouble. Sam couldn't let Brady fall down that path.

Sam felt the weight pull him further down. Rent is due in a week and it would be close. He should make enough if he finishes his scheduled shifts without being sent home. He will have to skip a few meals, but it'll be okay because the semester is almost over. Then he can work full-time.

Dean had taught Sam how to pinch pennies. A tugging at his heart made him ache for Dean even more. But he shoved it down with the rest of the weight pulling him down. Dean didn't want anything to do with him.

Even if he did, it's not like he would rebel from Dad to come visit Sam. But that's ok. Sam doesn't need him. He is doing just fine without him. And he will be just fine. He already has two jobs lined up over the summer. But those jobs wouldn't matter if Sam can't get his shit together and keep his GPA up.

No summer job would even come close to making enough for tuition. The first bill is due in July and in 5 payments succeeding that. The weight felt like a band across his chest, restricting his breathing and making it worse than the stupid congestion already had.

Sam glanced around for Linda before sniffing again. A quick glance at the dull black watch tells him he has forty-five minutes before he gets off. He sighed and some of the weight released. Almost. He could almost leave.

Forty-five more minutes. Then he can leave. His bike is waiting outside to take him the mile and a half home. Where he will study until midnight. Sam might not have known he was coming down with a cold until this morning, but he knew now. He needs to get at least six hours of sleep. Otherwise the cold will spiral out of control and develop into pneumonia.

Sam had pnuemonia when was 11. Bad enough that the doctor at the clinic Dean had taken him to had sent him by ambulance to the hospital. Sam can't get that sick until after finals. He sniffed again. What was it like to breathe and actually have air enter his lungs? Geez. Of all the times. His thoughts and misery were interrupted as he fished in the sink for the last of the dishes only to come up empty. One thing done. Almost time to leave.

Sam pulled the plug for the drain and watched the sudsy water swirl down the drain. Relief swept through him at the prospect of going home.

Only to be dragged back down by the realization that he had to bike home. In fifty-degree mist. Fuck his life. A whine escaped his throat as he peered out the window in the hopes that it had stopped misting. Only to be faced with what could only be categorized as a downpour. The weight multiplied. He could feel himself sinking.

Sam tried to shift his thoughts into a more positive outlook. Maybe it would stop raining. Not likely, his stupidly logical brain piped in. Okay, well maybe it won't be raining quite so hard. Right, his brain quickly shot back, like Sam was that lucky. Sam breathed in on reflex, a habit he had developed to calm himself down since he was young.

Except he couldn't breathe, which forced the band around his chest to constrict. A choked cough escaped before he could stop it.

"All done back here Sam?" A woman's voice shocked Sam and instead of managing to pull in a breath, he only managed in aggravating the cough. Sam cut off all attempts at breathing and refused to allow his chest to expand after the third cough.

"Yeah," Sam choked out. He cleared his throat in hope of making his voice sound like he didn't have the mother-of-all colds. Linda had already taken a small step back, her arms crossed and her face scrunched in a mix of horror and concern.

"Must have swallowed wrong. I'm fine, you startled me is all." Sam's rough voice and plea sounded forced to his own ears and he inwardly winced. He spoke softer and breathier than normal to conceal that his nose was stopped up. But The weight grew and pulled him down with a sinking feeling in his chest.

"Sounds like a nasty cold to me Sam." Linda frowned disapprovingly at him. Sam cleared his throat a final time.

"Nah, just startled me is all Linda." Sam rushed to reassure his boss. He can't afford to not work next shift because she found out he was sick. The weights shifted and tightened, he was sinking.

"Promise." The tone was more pleading than Sam would ever admit, and he knew that he was using what Dean had always fondly called his "stupid puppy eyes" (always accompanied with the swipe of a hand through his hair, even as Dean rolled his eyes). Linda searched his face, her body posture relaxing as she took in his hopeful expression. She sighed.

"You know I can't have you working if you're sick Sam."

Sam was being sucked down. No. This can't happen. His heart hammered and his head grew light.

"-all it was though..." a pause and Linda sighed. Sam managed to tune back in, blinking as he realized that he had missed the first part of whatever she had said.

"I guess that's fine. You get out of here though." Linda motioned in a scooting motion towards the door.

"It's five til clock off. Go on." She winked at him, even as she kept more distance than normal. "I'll clock you out. Go home and sleep."

Sam contemplated it for maybe half a minute before nodding in appreciation and he relaxed his tensed position.

"Thanks Linda, I owe you one. Seriously." Sam told Linda, his voice still a softer rendition than normal. He pulled off his apron and headed towards the exit. He swapped his jacket for his apron off the last peg and pulled the hood up as he stepped out the door into the rain.

It had slowed and was now down to a sprinkle, but it was still a miserable ride home. Made more so when a passing bus drenched him as it sped through a puddle.

Sam didn't think he had ever been so grateful to see a building as he was his apartment complex. Until he stepped inside that is. The sight that greeted him was an unwelcome one.

Brady lay drunkenly sprawled on the floor. His blue sports shirt lay on the floor to his left, inside-out. Sam cursed. Not bothering to be quiet. Brady should have to pick up his own shit. Except Brady is his friend. One of his only and best. Sam took off his jacket and shoes and moved to take off Brady's still-wet-shoes and get him to bed.

The weight shifted and increased, pulling him down. Sam is sinking.


	4. Chapter 4

So…..I don't know where this went wrong but it did somewhere when I posted this. I just checked it and realized it wasn't the edited version of this chapter. Sorry!

Hey guys! I have another update! This story isn't moving in quite the direction I had originally planned, but it's still coming along and I have a basic outline for how I want it to go. Sorry for the wait! I've started up two more jobs so my time is a little limited. I tried to check this over but again, I only manage to work on this late at night. So if there's any mistakes you guys' catch let me know! Also, if there's any direction you guys want to see this go let me know, I will definitely try to incorporate it into the story. I got a suggestion from the that gave my muse a kickstart.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings! The boys have potty mouths

* * *

Dean gustily sang along to "Black Betty" by Ram Jam as he rolled down the road; a big smile stretched across his face. One arm hanging out the window and the other loosely gripping the top of Baby's steering wheel as he cruised down a no-name two lane back road.

He had successfully just finished a case involving a werewolf that had him stumped for over a week in the same small town. Small towns suck, Dean concluded. It had only two bars and all the bar-goers were locals, which was an issue because it made hustling nigh on impossible because the bartenders always remember who makes trouble. His funds were only a little low, nothing to be concerned about for quite some time to come. He had made it unscathed out of the hunt. Well, mostly unscathed, he flexed his hand on the wheel in emphasis of the slightly bruised knuckles and grimaced as he shifted to not pull on the pissed off back muscles.

Damn, although the werewolf was just one fugly and not in a group, he certainly moved fast, the wily bastard had managed to bowl into Dean and careen him into a table before Dean managed to potshot him with some silver. Fun times. But, one more fugly in the ground. One more solo hunt completed. Dean frowned, his good mood faltering at the aching reminder of group hunts. Back before Sammy brutally split the family unit apart.

Dean shook his head slightly and snorted to himself. The fight that night had been brewing for a long time. Dean had known something had been up with the kid, but not in a million years would have guessed it to be college.

Hindsight, being the little karmatic bitch it is, is 20/20 and looking back, Dean has to admit Sam threw up a lot of neon flashing signs warning of his departure. As much as he tries to blame the collapse of their family on Sam, he can't in good conscious put all of the blame on Sam. If he had paid more attention to Sam's increasing hostility and surly silence and not just blown it off with a shrug and his typical quip about "Sammy's time of the month."

It's after Sammy left, that Dad left Dean to his own devices and set him on his first solo hunts. They check in weekly, sometimes daily if it sounds like a dangerous hunt. Well, dangerous by their standards, not your typical civvy standards.

Dean misses Sam.

Has actually stopped by both the college and its massive, snobby occupants and by Sam's own apartment to check on the kid. Make sure he is doing alright. The stupid kid doesn't set up the majority of the wards that they grew up using and marking in their shitty motel rooms. Dean glanced at his busted knuckles, then to his gas gauge. Maybe it's time for another swing-by.

Besides, with all that college population, it was always a good hunting ground.

XXX

Sam startled awake.

Falling on the floor in a tangle of sweaty sheets and a resounding thump that echoed much louder in his head than it probably should. He tried to blink the cobwebs out of his eyes but they remained deeply rooted.

Sam rubs at his gritty feeling eyes, trying to make sense of all the blurry blobs sitting on the cold hard floor with him. He lets out a mournful groan and jerks his hand back as one of his fingernails blearily stabs him in the eye. Shit! What time is it? Sam's knees tangle more in the sheets and he slips and lands on one of his arms as he lunged for the alarm clock on the nightstand. 3:12 stares in haughty, bold red numbers back at him. He curses beneath his breath as he carefully extracts his arm out from underneath him and starts untangling himself from the errant sheets.

Is it worth it to go back to sleep for two hours, he contemplates, or should he stay up and try to crank out some studying before going to class.

God. How is it only Tuesday? Seriously, it feels like it should at least be a Thursday. Sam lurches as he comes to a slouched stand, still absently rubbing his eyes and squinting them as he considers staying up or going to bed now. Another glance at the clock.

Pro of sleeping, he definitely needs it, he sniffs to test how congested he is and gets a pitiful whine and coughs when it fails to actually supply oxygen to his sleep-deprived brain. An image of an exhausted brain with neurons sparking out and shutting down dashes behind his closed eyelids. Which is when he realizes he had to have closed his eyes to result in having to open them.

What's supposed to be a frustrated sigh suddenly became a jaw-splitting yawn.

Con of sleeping. Less time studying. Sam keeps a mental tally of the tick marks under each heading as he carefully eases himself onto the bed.

Shooting a glancing look to the opposing bed and a comfortably snoring Brady, Sam can't help but feel a little resentment seep in. Brady shouldn't be throwing his GPA, which is essentially his life, down the crapper just because of one bad semester. But certainly that shouldn't mean that Sam should suffer for it. Sam tries to hold onto that anger to stir himself into some form of action, whether it be crawling back under his disgustingly sweat soaked sheets, or dragging himself over to the sad excuse for a desk.

The anger seeps through his grasp like water through sand. His brain like a porous stone rather than the typical absorbent sponge. It just dripped through his exhausted brain. Not leaving more than a slight lingering sadness, but suddenly seeming to drop a barbell on his shoulders and his vision swam as though he were falling down a hole.

Like that time he had been on a hunt. Sam had been bait, much to Dean's anger and horror, and he had ended up running fast and hard. The supposed ghost of a boy drowned on a river hadn't turned out to be a simple ghost, but rather a water wraith. A type not confined by water. Dad had wagered on it being stuck in the water which led to Sam desperately running away, trying to get away as Dean and his Dad dashed after them. Sam had fallen down a deep hole. He woke to Dean holding his head in his lap and murmuring reassurances, even as he sent angry glares of accusation at John.

Sam's head pounded, strongly in favor of sleep. And choosing to remind of the fact that humans are funny things, requiring food and sleep, by not allowing his vision to clear and by marching a shiver down his body, causing goosebumps to line up like soldiers up and down his sore body.

Sam glanced at the laptop sitting inauspiciously at the desk. He needed to do well. Lest he fall down the steep slope for success. He heaved another deep breath, clasping his hands together and shivering again. Sleep, or study. Either way he risked falling.

Smack, a slight noise, familiar as a skin to skin contact and the numb-warm feeling of his hand and face helped his mind resurface. His palm scratched at his face. Sam glanced at the blurry image he knew to be the desk and his computer. He squints his eyes in concentration, trying to read the stickers on his laptop. He only manages to make his eyes water.

Screw this.

Sam will sleep for the next two hours or however the hell long he has left. With how fuzzy his vision his and how...ughck... he feels, trying to study won't accomplish much but give him vague memories of sitting at his desk come exam time. Sam scrubs his forehead and scrunches his eyes closed. Dean had always said he could tell when Sam wasn't feeling well because of the facial expressions he made. Dean probably would have already drug his ass into the nearest cheap clinic by now. Sam heaves a sigh, honestly he should go to a clinic or a doctor. There's one on campus for students fairly cheap. But Sam doesn't have time or money. And honestly, doctors have never brought along supremely good news. There's something wrong for people to end up at the doctor's office. And there is nothing wrong with Sam. He will make it just fine. Because this is just a cold that's going to go away very soon. Regardless of the amount of sleep he gets.

Except Sam knows he is falling into an ever-growing hole despite his best attempts at denying it until it's true.

He knows it. He is not afraid of falling, it's the landing he worries about.

"Ughhmmmm", a muffled moan sneaks out, a deep, nasally, and quite honestly, pathetic sound as he finally concedes. Studying isn't going to happen tonight. Hopefully the sleep helps. The world through his vision still is spinning and flashing like one of those cheap, flashy tops he used to play with as a kid. The world swayed like he just came off one of those spinny playground things. They type Dean used to push around. The corners of his lips twitch up at the fond memories. Dean would always make sure he had a firm grasp on the bars before pushing it in its circular path as fast as he could and hopping on himself. Sam felt himself list as the memory of the motion screwed with his brain, making him feel as if he was spinning beneath him, even as he sat firmly planted on his bed.

Sam falls.

He pulls a bit on the sheets his fell on, not caring that he only gets a little bit of the cloth. It's enough to cover his core. A shiver wracks his body, making his feet slide on the cold floor.

Sam fell then too, he fell off the stupid spinny thingy at that one park, the details long lost in a mirage of city names and states. But the difference between falling now, and falling then, is that he had Dean to catch him then.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hey guys! I did add a small paragraph in Chapter 4, you may want to read that, it's not relevant really to this chapter, but to the next two it will be brought up. Hope you guys enjoy! Please leave a review or comment if you can spare the time to let me know what you think or if you want anything in particular to happen.

* * *

Struggles. Sam knows all about struggles, having faced many different types: emotional, physical, mental, and probably spiritually too if you really examined it. When he was a toddler, it was the absence of a mother. He might not remember it, but knowing Dad and the way he is, and that Dean was barely more than a toddler himself, he knows that he struggled with learning more than Dean had at his age. Dean had admitted quietly so one night near their mother's death anniversary.

Geez, what a way to be callous, thought Sam. Most people thought of anniversaries as exciting dates, wedding anniversaries or of learning a task like learning to walk. Not the death of a close family member. Dean had slurringly splurged info that night, about how he had been worried, even as a really young child, about Sam's development. Sammy was older than Dean when he learned to crawl, and eventually to crawl. His speech was not near as good as Dean's either until Dean started learning to read in first grade. Then Dean admitted that he would bring home books and his homework and read it aloud to Sam and get him to try to repeat it back. It was one of the reasons Dean was such a great reader when he was younger, before hunting took over his life at least. Not to say Dean is slow now, because he definitely isn't, he is one of the smartest and kindest people Sam knows. Once Dean had started going to school, he took care of Sam's academic growth, getting him a kick-start on learning. But then came other worries. Little Sammy struggled with not having Big Brother Dean around all the time. Sam easily recalls different teasing quips Dean had sent his way while growing up together. About how Sam would miss him and rush up to him, with exuberant cheers and tackle him as soon as Dean exited the building. How both had ended up with mild scrapes from such antics more than once.

When Sam was six, Dad started teaching him self-defense and mild workouts, such as pushups, sit-ups, and running; running being the one most gone over. Sam remembers struggling to get out of bed the first couple of weeks. He had been so excited to be allowed to do 'big boy' stuff 'like De'n!. But that excitement wore off very quickly. Sam remembers an empathetic Dean massaging screaming sore muscles, and gently knuckling away stray tears after such grueling trials.

Another major struggle in his life, had been once he hit schooling age. He was fine up until he hit about the fourth and fifth grades. From then on until he graduated, his fellow students made his life living hell nine times out of ten. There was many busted and bloody noses, bruised ribs, and on very rare occasions, busted or bruised knuckles. Worse though were the words, sharpened like daggers in the vicious minds of adolescents, they were sent flying at Sam with the same mercy Dad showed anything supernatural. Up until his sophomore or junior year of high school, Dean had always tried to help. Sam struggled to fit in to at any school, let alone with the amount they moved. Dean slid into his place in the high school pecking order like a batter to first base. Smooth and quickly. Not that Sam would want it to be any other way. Sam struggled with his peers like his peers struggled with their calculus assignments. They just didn't make sense to Sam.

School and toddlerhood weren't the only examples of the struggles Sam could remember. His struggles only seemed to get worse as he got older. He went from worrying about school and his peers, to worrying about doing research for hunts and learning how to hunt when he was twelve. Same age as Dean when Dean went out on his first hunt. Much to Dean's dismay and frustration. Sam struggled with it, the supernatural can't help the way they are, not that Sam feels much sympathy for them after they've done harm, but they were once human, and, unless they were witches, some evil had befallen them. Nobody asked to come back as a ghost, or to survive on a trail to a supposedly better life by eating dying or dead comrades only to become a wendigo. In most cases, the people didn't seek evil out, evil sought them out. And thus, Sam, as often as he could, made sure deaths were quick and suffering minimal. There is more than one type of evil, and it's not all human. John had been through the roof, spitting mad whenever Sam had uttered any of these thoughts." The supernatural is killing innocent people Sam! Is that not evil enough for you boy?" In addition to his morals, Sam struggled with his training. He didn't pick it up like Dean. He was awkward and clumsy, often tripping over his own two feet or air and receiving bruises and scrapes for his troubles. As he struggled with hunting and training, the load was increased. John was certain he would get it if he would just try harder. But that meant Sam's grades suffered. Which was all that Sam held onto. In school, all he had to do was do what they asked of him, even if it wasn't all right, the fact he did it all meant a lot to the teachers. But to John, it didn't matter. If Sam didn't do as well as John wanted, then obviously Sam needed to practice more regardless of whatever else Sam had planned. School? Not going to save your ass on a hunt boy. Friends? Didn't happen often, but when it did, it wasn't like John would let the stay in touch after they left. All of these struggles and nuances between them had caused even more struggles. The struggles between the family unit which ultimately led to Sam leaving, John's parting words still ring in his ears and an aching weight in his chest.

But all of those struggles, they seem insignificant to his struggles now. It's Thursday, the week is almost over. After this week, then there are just finals left. The only problem is Sam is struggling, sinking falling. Sam is sick, even he must admit now. He has two A's, two B's and a C. Better than it was, but it needs to be better. He has struggled endlessly throughout the semester for it, and it might not be enough. He worked last night, he works tonight and he works tomorrow. His cough is now unstiflable, if Maggie works tonight, then she will send him home. And he can't afford that. He snagged some Nyquil but at the cost of lunch. It's at times like these that Sam realizes just how much he misses Dean. Dad was never around to be missed. But Dean, Dean raised him. He cared for him, nurtured him, whether or not either of them will ever admit it, Dean was Sam's world and anchor. He made sure Sam was taken care of to the best of his abilities. With all of his struggles, Dean was always right by his side to help him through. But now he isn't, and that is just another fantastic struggle. Hopefully all of this is worth it, if he doesn't make it through this semester, he might not make it at all.

Dean squinted blearily at the ragged, dusty tome in front of him. It was leather-bound, and falling apart. The edges frayed to the point of threat of falling apart entirely. Not that it particularly worried Dean right now, it was from the local library and so far held no pertinent information. Bobby had called him up with a case in Nevada, 6 people had fallen prey to it in less than a month. Dean had hightailed it that way, it isn't often that Bobby asks anything of him. Hell, they haven't spoke but once or twice since he chased Dad off the Salvage Yard with a double -barreled shotgun. Dean had never been given an explanation as to why they had a falling=out, but Bobby was still a damn good hunter, a valuable source of supernatural lore and information, and practically blood-family. But this damned hunt had him chasing his tail like a circus dog. The book seemed to be of no use. If it fell apart it would be of no less use to him than it is now. Dean rubs a hand across his face as he flips a few pages back to a different passage. After reading and re-reading it at least three times, he stared contemplatively at the grungy, tan motel wall. Sam would be helpful to have right about now. Him and his geek brain would have sorted this shit out six hours ago. Bobby didn't have much information on it and Dad hasn't answered his phone for the last three day, him being off the grid in the Appalachian Mountains somewhere hunting something. Check-in day, isn't for another three days. Besides, it has the makings of a typical salt and burn. But God would it be so much easier with little brothers along, talking aloud as he solved the case in a flat-out impressive amount of time. Instead, Sammy is off living the apple-pie life, banging co-eds and partying every weekend. Dean feels a smile tug his lips and snorts at the thought, Sammy was a prude all throughout high school that was always Dean's shtick. But this miserable, if Sammy was here, at least there would be somewhere struggling right alongside him.

Dean took a break from the book, flipping it closed and pushing his chair back a screech. He started the sad excuse for a coffee pot before taking a leak. By the time he came out of the bathroom, having cleaned up a little as well, the coffee was gurgling out the last of the hot coffee. He poured himself a mug and stepped back to look at his string diagram. The victims were all male, between twenty and thirty years old. All found face down in a little river, the cars stalled out on a bridge. Dean had all the history on the bridge and a mile leading up to the bridge in hopes of figuring it out. He had a few theories, water nymphs, some sort of local legend and possible a few suicide-related deaths. The legend had proved to be a bust. Dean spent precious hours tracking it down only to discover it to be some foolish seniors from the local high school causing some ruckus. Water nymphs weren't as common this far north and west as they were down in the Midwest and along more coastal areas. But he couldn't rule the possibility out. Dean took a careful sip of the scalding liquid and relished the bitter aftertaste. That left the suicides. One Margie O'Hara, and a Jackson Simpson. Jackson, according to the school records, had been a poor student his whole academic career. Got into a lot of fights, and ended up doing community service as penchant. Margie on the other hand, exact opposite, straight A student, described by all who he managed to interview as kind and generous, very soft-spoken. The issue is that they both died. Jumping off the bridge about a week apart. The cemetery is in the middle of town, a rather unfortunate set-up for two counts of grave desecration, only for it to possibly not solve the case. The two had been noted as acting off the last few weeks they were alive. Margie, reclusive, quieter than usual, and more emotional. Jackson appeared to have gotten more violent. He got into four fist fights in a week, enough to have his Diploma withheld. Dean rubbed his clean-shaven chin. They were obviously connected. But how? For the millionth time since Sammy had left, Dean found himself struggling without a certain extra set of eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hey guys! So things are picking up, I'm planning to finish this up before school starts up. Sorry for the long wait. Let me know what you guys think please!

"Well you see now, you gotta go down Pershire Road 'bout 5 miles, take a sharp left at the gravel road, mind you, the sharp left not left diagonal. Two completely different roads boy, believe me." The old man scrubbed a hand across his scruffy 5 o'clock shadow.

Except the 5 o'clock shadow was thick enough to be a two-day-shadow, an awkward phase, Dean thought, between needing a shave desparately, or needing a week's worth of growth. But he wasn't here to judge some old, crabby hodger's beard sense, especially if Johnny Hamper hadn't learned it by now. "-2miles than you take a right onto Hardecker's Road, named after the guy who put down the rock for us you see? Kinda named it 'cause the Hardecker and his boy had to put so much time into keeping up on the road. Flashfloods if it so much as looks like spittin', so you watch for that boy."

Dean cut Johnny off, wanting to get started on his search on the bridge. "You've been mighty helpful, I gotta get going though. Papers to write and the Publisher ain't the most forgiving of guys if you catch my drift."

The old man nodded in understanding, the leathery skin on his neck jangling with the movement. "I understand boy, places to be and people to see, am I right. Now you get going, when I was your'n age I wouldn't'a listened to some old man neither." Dean smiled politely and wished him a good day before striding off to the Impala mentally swearing at the thought of more dusty backroads, they weren't nice to his Baby's paint or engine.

Time to go visit this "unlucky" bridge, Dean thought with a grimace as he patted Baby's dash in apology for the drive.

SPNSPNSPN

Dean leaned warily against the cold metal railing of the forlorn bridge, eyes scanning the meandering river roughly thirty-five feet below. The river, more like a shallow creek, had rocky outcroppings along the north shore while the south side harbored a deceivingly shallow depth in its murky undertones. Trees lined either bank, a large group of pines with scattered oaks following the steep edge of the water. The sun peeked between the fluffy, popcorn clouds, the kind of clouds that always preceded a good rainstorm.

It truly was a pretty scene, Dean had to admit, a picturesque background that would be well-suited to be found on a postcard. But instead of being a local make-out point for teenagers, it was a local legend for its deaths. It was at this point that at least six abandoned cars had been discovered, the owners never found. All male victims, all drove within two miles of the bridge as a regular route home. This, is why Dean is here, mysterious deaths, abandoned cars, baffled law enforcement, all sounds like a good time to Dean. Dean furrowed his brow, add almost non-existant wildlife to the growing list of "things wrong at Hardecker's Bridge. He looked around, specifically this time for wildlife of any sort, rather than taking in the topography of the river. A bird nesting in an oak, a squirrel in another tree, but not bustling like it should be. He leaned back, one hand on the rail to glance to the left and right. Nope. Not the excess of wildlife that should be at such a Nevada river. The river gurgled with life, but that was the only sound. No birds obnoxiously singing their mating songs, no chattering squirrels, no loud-mouthed animals anywhere. The disappearances were definitely linked here somehow. The clues pointed to it, the cars, lack of wildlife... it had to be here.

But What.

What is here.

Dean started the trek back to the Impala. He had parked her on the gravel road, the other poor blokes didn't have good luck with their cars here, and Dean was certainly not taking any chances with Baby.

She deserved better.

The gravel crunched lazily under his feet as he walked in a zigzag fashion, looking for anything to stick out and help him with the case. Now that he had a layout, he was going to start doing supernatural checks, starting with the EMF detector. Margie and Jackson may have met here, maybe one of them died here. Local accounts are not always as reliable as they seem, small towns like Wintergreen like to keep local shady happenings exactly that. Local. And Dean had come in and introduced himself as a reporter, foolishly. The locals were pretty tightlipped. Thank God for Rosie, the old lady at the library. She had been the one to admit to Dean some of the backstory on the two teenagers, Jackson and Margie. Saying the whole time that they were such poor lost innocents.

Dean didn't know how true that was back then while they were both alive, but at least one of them was his main suspect for the deaths. The timelines matched up for it to be either one of them. The EMF detector in hand, Dean closed the trunk with a distinct _thunk_ and strode steadily back to the bridge.

As Dean came to the middle of the bridge, exactly where the last car had been, movement on his left had him swiveling to face the distraction, he raised the EMF detector in one hand, bracing the elbow of the arm wielding the shotgun. He suspected a ghost, a vengeful one, which made him think Jackson, but it just as easily could be Margie. Just because she had been peaceful, sweet little thing while she was alive did not mean she would remain so in death.

He shifted the shotgun a little, sweeping it left to right in search of the source of the noise. Suddenly, the EMF came to life, whining its high-pitched warning and bleeping out completely. After several minutes passed, with no more sign from the EMF, Dean lowered the shotgun. There was something here, but sitting out here in the open was not doing him any good. He turned in a circle and walked slowly to the other side. As he turned to shoot a glance at the other side of the bridge, the EMF screamed as he came face to face with the faded apparition of a girl.

The EMF continued its screech while the girl backed away from him, hands up defensively.

"No! Please!" She stumbled back so fast she fell. Dean was momentarily baffled, he had come expecting something to toss him around like a rag doll. Not...whatever this is.

"Please! Don't hurt my baby!" Her feet skidded against gravel in her efforts to move away, she held one arm against her stomach protectively.

Dean lifted his shotgun and with a single round, she disappeared with a screech. Satisfied that she was gone, and now knowing who the culprit was, Dean moved to go back to the Impala, this hunt was in the bag. All he had to do was dig up a grace. No sooner had he slung the shotgun over his shoulder however, the EMF shrieked.

"You killed her!"

Dean fell to his knees as something struck him over the head.

"You killed her!"

He scrambled for the gun, rolling onto his back to face the incoming threat, one pissed off ghost by the name of Jackson Simpson. The ghost flown the gun out of his reach with a sweep of his hand.

"You killed her!" Dean was bodily thrown, he tried to push himself up, blood dripped in his eye and he could feel blood oozing down the side of his face. The sharp gravel dug into his palms and knees as he scrambled desperately for the shotgun. It was about twenty-five feet away, too far to do him any good even as he lunged for it, hoping to any deity listening that he would make it.

"And now I'm going to kill you!" One last blow threw him off the bridge and into the river. Dean lost consciousness before he even hit the water. His body tossed around like a limp ragdoll and flung into the rocks.

The apparition stood over the edge of the bridge, watching the hunter's body be bashed by the peaceful looking river, before he slowly faded out of view.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Hey guys! I'm still alive! Hoping to finish this story and have it up very soon. Let me know what you think. Reviews mean more than you'll ever know. I might not always respond, but I go back through and read them! , I can't tell you how much I enjoy your reviews, I tried to tag you the last two chapters, but for wahtever reason it didn't want to work. So thank you so much!

Alright, spiel over, hope you guys enjoy!

XXX

Sam opened his backpack as Ms. Lynderson dismissed class.

"Extra credit if you do the practice Final Exam! Come grab one up front before you leave. It will be due BEFORE you take your final or you will NOT get any credit!"

Sam paused in putting away his books long enough to scribble the info down. Extra Credit was always a good thing. As he bent over to shove his textbook deeper into his backpack, a chest-tightening cough overtook him, causing him to almost fold in half in his seat over the bag. The cough that had started out as a really minor nuisance had quickly become a concerning wet, crackly cough that impeded his ability to breathe. Even when he wasn't coughing.

It reminded him of when he was 15 and had gotten soaked to the bone on a hunt and ended up with pneumonia. As the coughing fit continued, his vision grayed out along the edges, static filled his ears with the feeling of the air shredding its way in and out of his lungs in stuttered bursts. By the time he had finally dragged in a few slow, albeit shallow, breaths of air and his vision finally cleared enough to see clearly, the classroom had emptied.

He stood up cautiously, bracing a hand on the flimsy desk to hold his balance as his vision swam with the effort of transitioning from sitting to standing. With herculean effort, he lifted his backpack and pulled it onto his back. It pressed his shirt to his achy skin, which prickled in protest as only fevered skin would. Finally making it out of the classroom, he swiped a hand across his face, a habit which had increased as his sleep-deprived in a linear relation.

On his walk home, all Sam could think about was Dean.

He missed Dean.

More than he thought he would.

He missed the taunts with no real heat behind them that were muttered even as Dean took expert care of Sam. Sam may not need the comfort his big brother had provided, but that doesn't mean he didn't miss it like an amputated limb. Sam hadn't realized just how much Dean was his fail safe until he no longer had him. Of all the things he left behind by coming to Stanford, Dean was what he missed.

Not the adrenaline rush of a hunt, not the triumph after a successful hunt, or the puzzle each hunt presented. It was Dean and his support that he missed. Even when Dean didn't agree, he might let Sam flounder and fall, but he was always there to patch Sam up; never leaving him to mend on his own. Sam snorted, great job he has done on his own. Can't even afford to visit the Stanford medical clinic. Or take care of a common cold. Dean would be so disappointed if he could see him now. God, what even would Dad say.

Just proving him right.

Sam stumbled over an uneven patch along the road, his eyes starting to moist up and his vision blurring. This close to his shitty apartment, there was no sidewalk. Construction was underway for it, but until it was finished, according to one of the signs put up when construction had just started, in September, anyone walking the path, had to walk in the road. Traffic was not like it was near the college here, not a steady stream of cars, but also not deserted. The cars had to yield to the pedestrians here, and people in California knew it. Sam just didn't get the people here. They wouldn't even check the street before brazenly crossing. None the less, he always glanced left and right before crossing.

Call it an ingrained habit, one he had learned from Dean at a young age, but he would much rather not tempt fate, for she was a fickle wench at times. He sped up as he recognized he was almost to his apartment, just around the next block now. Seeing nothing coming in either direction, he started crossing the street. He glanced up at the sky, taking in the rapidly darkening sky and hurried his steps, even as his chest rumbled and vibrated with every breath he took in protest.

The weather certainly wasn't on his side right now, he thought with a scowl. The clouds that had earlier looked mildly threatening had somehow darkened and picked up pace along his walk. Thunder boomed as the first few raindrops fell, landing on his upturned face.

He was broken out of his reverie by the sound of an engine. Sam whirled around, towards the sound of the rapidly approaching engine only to realize with horror that the car that rounded the corner didn't seem to be slowing as it should. The car was too close, there is no way he can make it to the other side. All he could do, was prepare for impact. As the fender hit him, Sam recalled all the times he had been tossed around by the supernatural. He instinctively rolled up the hood and off the side, everything screaming in agony at the unforgiving strike by metal, the air driven from his lungs in a painful burst. As he hit the tarmac in an ungraceful heap, the world faded to gray to the sound of squealing tires and yelling.


	8. Chapter 8: Rescue

Riiiingg.

He blearily opened his eyes to a blurry, up-close view of some Native American tribal myths and legends. Trying to figure out how he fell asleep on his desk like a school ki-

Riiiiingg.

The shrill noise only caused more momentary confusion, as it wasn't the familiar ringtone of his phones.

Riiiingg.

Balls. Bobby swiped a hand in that direction in exasperation, the machine can just pick it up,

Riii-Click.

"This is Melinda with Stanford Campus Health and I am trying to get in contact with the family of one of our students, Samuel Winchester."

SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN

Pain.

Gah

Dean chocked on a groan that despite his efforts, escaped.

"Easy son, got your ass handed to you."

Bobby

Dean tried to sit up, to open his eyes, anything to not appear as foolishly injured as he felt, only to be pushed with the gruff gentleness only Bobby could possess. He felt Bobby shift away after making sure his point was received, Dean was to stay down.

"Bobby," Dean tried to say it, but no sound escaped his lips. He frowned his annoyance and licked his lips, surprised to taste blood and by how dry and cracked they felt. He tried to inhale to call a little louder, try to figure out just what the hell was going on, but the attempt made him realize his chest felt tight, and like he didn't get enough air.

Like there was a weight on his chest.

He tried again to pull more air into his lungs, the air burnt and sliced down his nasal cavity, through his esophagus, and down to his lungs, felicitating a test cough to clear his throat. Which suddenly launched a full-on coughing, wheezing fit that had him curling up, trying to sit up to breathe better. How it would help him breathe, he didn't know, but it felt right, and his instincts typically worked in his favor in that manner.

Dean felt himself jerk at a surprising hand on his shoulder. His ears were ringing and vision clouding in. Bobby dragged him into a more upright position, and as his fit slowed down to just pained wheezing, he saw Bobby crouched in front of him, waiting for the silent 'I'm good' signal. Thank god it was Bobby and not Dad. Shit, did Dean feel like he had been put through a blender. Dean felt achy, and not in a fought-the-fugly-of-the-week type of way, but the something-got-the-drop-on-me sort of feel. Which was never a good thing.

Once he recovered his breath, Dean tried sort the memories into the right order to find exactly what made him feel like this and just how it resulted in Bobby showing up, but not his old man.

"Now that you have decided to grace me with you appearance, Sleeping Beauty, why don't you tell me just how you happened to get washed up on a riverbank like the Biblical Moses minus the blanket and plus a beat-to-hell look?"

"Ahhhhh well you see..."

SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN

Meanwhile, in the Stanford Campus Health building, a stubborn Sam was trying to puppy-dog-eye his way out of going to the ER and failing. As a pretty student intern tried to convince him to accept an ambulance ride from the "nice paramedics just trying to do their job."

The argument was good but lacked the amount of determination that Sam had.

"Mr. Winchester, not only are you going to go to the hospital, you are going to allow the EMTs, who have spent years in school same as you, to do their job and take you, by Ambulance, yes, the afore-mentioned God-forsaken Wee-Yoo money-hogger to said hospital where you WILL remain a patron of their fantastic facilities UNTIL your release has been sanctioned by a proper professional such as a Doctor!"

Sam felt himself flush, yes that may have been what he called the ambulance when they initially broached the topic of a hospital, but to say so while now that a crowd had gathered to watch the shenanigans was another thing entirely.

"See that is where you misunderstand me. I am not refusing help, I am refusing the 5,000-dollar trip to hospital VIA ambulance. I am sure I can call up my roommate and he will be here to pick me up and take me. It is a broken ankle, not a broken spine," Sam fervently argued.

"As well that may be, we cannot get a hold of your roommate to drive you, but it is STILL a broken bone in THIS medical facility! Where we are not properly equipped to handle broken bones! Especially ones that need to be casted!"

"Thank you greatly for handling the situation thus far Ms. Moore, but I can take it from here," a deep voice momentarily distracted Sam from his argument as a greying man stepped between the gurney and the EMTs blocking the entrance; and consequently, Sam's escape route, to the room

As Sam took a breath to further argue his point, it wheezed in, not enough oxygen coming in.

His cold making itself known.

What little made it to his chest, forced its way out in a hackling, horrifically wet sounding cough. And again, not enough air came in, and Sam was abruptly reminded of how hard it was to normally breathe as of recent, without trying to make an argument. He vaguely registered the EMTs pushing in, and helping him sit up, he coughed harder, but air still wasn't coming in.

He couldn't breathe.

He felt like he was suffocating in a bubble separate from the room around him. He heard alarms going off as frantic, yet calculated moves by the blurry EMTs brought an Oxygen mask to his face.

Stale air flowed in, but he still couldn't breathe.

Now there was even more air, the oxygen he desperately needed flowing about 15 litres a minute, but not enough of it coming in-..panic was taking hold.

Sam could feel his heart trying to beat out of his chest and his vision tunneled, the whistling sound of his inhale turning into the crackling sound of cough for an exhale. One of the EMTs started hitting the middle of his back on his exhale to try to help clear his airways, which to Sam really just felt like revenge for calling the ambulance a money-hogging wee-yoo machine but what did he know.

He was clearly going to die, not by a hunt, but by a stupid cold. Yep, weren't Dad and Dean going to be so impressed if they caught wind of this which would never happen because-

Oh. Shit.

Sam felt air actually enter his lungs just as the realization that his throwing a fit in the Health building and ending up in the ER would probably result in a call to his ICE number. Uncle Bobby.

Who would probably in turn show up, but not without telling Dad and Dean all about it. Fuck. Sam is dead. If they catch wind of this and show up to try to drag Sam back to the hunting lifestyle there would be a fight, and not the verbal kind. The bloody faces and fists kind. With words thrown like weapons just for more fun.

"Mr. Winchester, now that you have demonstrated with such grace exactly why it would be wise to transport you to the hospital, why don't you ride with these kindly gentlemen to the hospital?" the older man spoke authoritatively, the pin on his shirt declaring him the Head Manager of the Stanford Health Clinic. Sam cautiously pulled the face mask off, to the grunt of annoyance and warning of the surprisingly buff EMT on his left,

"I will go to the hospital, I agree it is necessary. However, I refuse to ride in the ambulance." Sam continued quickly, hearing the men about to rebuff him, "I can ask someone to take me, I'll call up my roommate again, he is going to pick up. I promise. Just hand me my phone and I'll call him again."

One of the EMTs reluctantly handed him his phone and Sam shakily typed in Brady's number and listened to it ring.

And ring.

And ring and smiled awkwardly at the occupants in the room while he waited for Brady to get his drunk ass up. Surely after all that Sam had done Brady could at least answer his fucking phone for one fucking moment.

But no.

The phone rang out and went to voicemail, Brady's tinny voice promising to call back whenever he got a chance. Sam pressed end call and slowly lowered the phone to his lap.

"Is there someone else who could possibly take you? We have already called your Emergency contact and left a message...?" The student intern, a Ms. Moore if Sam recalled correctly, asked hopefully. Sam stared at his lap for a minute, trying to think of any contacts he had who had cars in Palo Alto. He couldn't think of any and slowly shook his head. More stuck on the fact that someone had already called Bobby.

"I can call a cab," Sam quietly spoke up. The Head Manager nodded his head in acceptance and politely took his leave, thanking the EMTs and wishing Sam luck. The EMTs followed him, probably to try to get Sam's billing info. Sam leaned back against the pillows. They helped more than he thought they would considering they were the type of cheap pillows used by the cheap motels he used to stay at as a kid. The thought struck him like an ice pick, through and through, cold and harsh, of what it would have been like if this had happened to him when he was in middle, or hell, even high school. Dean always called his bluff when he needed to and reminded him he was human and allowed to need time to heal or get better. The sound of a distinctly feminine throat being cleared disrupted any further thoughts, he moved his arm from his eyes and squinted in the light, at the pretty intern.

"If you can be bothered to stay there for about twenty minutes, I know someone who could give you a lift to the hospital."

Not wanting to risk further embarrassment by inducing another coughing fit, Sam nodded. Sam no longer cared the minor details of how he made it to the hospital, just so long as he made it and was hopefully released before Bobby showed up. Hopefully it was only Bobby, or even better, maybe Bobby is busy and asked Pastor Jim to check on him rather than driving all the way out to California and leaving his home base. Pastor Jim would be easy to convince enough to leave him be and NOT mention any of this to John or Dean which could only result in them trying to drag him back.

And Sam won't have that.

He has made it this far, there is no way he is going back to the hunting life.

No way no how. Sam is not going back. Not to watch Dad and Dean get flayed alive time after time. John less so than Dean. Dad got himself into this. Dean just wants to keep him alive. But at the rate John jumps from one monster to another, it's only a matter of time before he comes across something bigger than he is and none of his buddies or Dean will be able to do anything about it. Sam only hopes he doesn't take Dean with him, because as much as he wants to think that he doesn't need anybody, the knowledge that he could call Dean up and no matter what, if he needed help, Dean would come. It's where Dad comes in that there's problems.

God, he hopes Bobby sent Pastor Jim and didn't pass the message along.


End file.
